Thursday, January 29, 2009

She stared into the mirror, examining every inch of her frame. She had worked for months and months to achieve these results.

Purging. Exercising. Starving. And finally the results had been achieved.

Her hips jutted out painfully from her pants. Each rib was completely defined. Her stomach caved in, and her shoulder blades were exactly that. And she was happy. Her eyes looked large and doe-ish within her face, her cheek bones also exposed. There was still some fat to lose, around her thighs and upper arms. But she was sure she could get all of that off, too.

She would just have to find a way to get around all the people that were too jealous to let her be how she wanted to be. They would lie to her and say she was too thin, scarily thin. Who has ever heard of being too thin? They wanted her to gain weight. But she would refuse. She finally had it.

The perfect body.

As she stumbled back to her hospital bed, she collapsed on the floor. Her last conscious thought was one of contentment.

Mental health is a stigma in today's society. Perfectly understandable. In the past, someone with a mental health issue was locked away in an asylum, kept behind closed doors, sometimes written out of family histories. My own great grandmother was locked away in an institution in Tennessee in the early 1900's, and my family has yet to determine why. The thought of stringy unkempt hair, wild fits and tantrums, catatonic states, etc. come to mind.

But no longer should mental illness bring about these negative ideals. Today, most people suffer from some form and degree of mental illness. Usually depression and anxiety, and these states could be fleeting or chronic. The point of this entry is to simply state that denying a problem will not send it away.

I suffer from depression and bipolar disorder. Nothing bad about it. It is bad in the fact that sometimes I can not control my moods, but with the medications (so lovingly termed - my "diet" pills) I am on, I have more good days than bad. Because I chose to acknowledge, finally, that I had a problem. It is not normal to go for a few days without sleep, just because you feel you don't need it and you have too much to do. It is not normal to be so hopeless and upset (for no apparent reason) that you cannot force yourself from your bed and in a sense hide from the world. And it is not normal to go from one extreme to the other in a short period. But that's what I did. With a few panic attacks scattered about, just for spice and flavor.

My mother also suffers from depression. In our case, this is a hereditary problem that comes from our bodies inability to produce and absorb serotonin. Mother chose to ignore her problems until just a few years ago. As a result, my brother and I were raised by a psychotic bitch who could not control her temper, and spent days when she was not yelling or berating us, crying in her bedroom. My childhood was a time of silence and fear, and of not knowing what to expect from hour to hour. It was so great.

If she had gotten help early on, before my brother and I were born, perhaps life would have been a bit different. Perhaps my own problems would not be to the extreme that they are.

My psychiatrist recently sent me to the counseling center on campus, to talk more in depth with the psychologists they have on staff (quick lesson - psychiatrists have the drugs/ psychologists just talk to you). They feel I need one on one individual focused counseling for awhile. To help more with my mood swings, my body dismorphia, and other issues. I am complying, because maybe I will eventually be taken off the drugs I ingest daily, which can become quite expensive. And my health insurance does not cover the cost of the drugs or my visits.

Which, believe me, I find to be crap.

Mental illness is a disease just like anything else. No one thinks badly of the diabetic for taking insulin. Or those with heart problems taking blood pressure medicine. So the fact that I pop pills to keep my emotions under control should be just as acceptable.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

There are times when I cannot sit. There are times when I imagine my life behind a desk, locked away in an office, or worse yet, horror of horrors - a cubicle, and I violently shiver and yearn to fight and be freed from this doom. There are times when I long to pack a simple bag, throw it in my car with my dog at my side, and drive off toward some unknown destination. As far as my gas tank can carry me.

But then reality hits me like a ton of bricks. And I know to do anything with my life, I must finish my degree. I must have a reputable job. Or is that the mundane teachings of my dear mother? Who attempted to squash any creative endeavors that I or my brother might have entertained for any momentary passage of time?

I still want to write. I want people to read the things that spill from my brain onto paper, and I want to see their reactions, whether disgust, entertainment, disdain, or understanding. I want to make my living that way. The thought makes me happy and keeps me sane, at times. Such as today, when I felt my mental state falling down around me, I started writing. And I felt myself centering and calming, and eventually tiring myself out completely. And still I feel the need to sit here at this screen in the pitch black of my bedroom and type out more thoughts as they come to me.

Who is to say that I have to be the pencil pusher my entire life? Perhaps somewhere in me is the author I yearn to find. The author who has more time for writing and finishing stories and ideas. Many times I am so topsy turvy and incomplete, scattered as I record my thoughts. William Faulkner would be proud. Nay, even the great, or not so great depending upon your opinion, James Joyce. Or maybe they would just be pissed at me for stealing their thoughts. Perhaps one thought that I have has been recycled between many many authors and writers in the past, just looping in and out of our minds through the ages.

See how I get? Crazy shit, right? You should take a look at my computer files. Cleverly hidden on my desktop, if you ask me, in plain view. They are damn hard to decipher, even for me at times.

So I bid you all goodnight, and I retire for the fifth or sixth, perhaps even seventh time, to my bed.

My poor CKC registered pure bred chihuahua was recently raped by my brother's Dachshund. Damn mutt. Unfortunately I've noticed too late, and now she must carry to term the little bastards. Chiweenies. The damn things are one of the new designer breeds (which basically means pure bred dogs are raped by another pure bred dog that isn't the same breed and the owners still want to make money).

She was in heat at Christmas when I was home to visit my parents, so when we all left for the day, I locked my dog in my room. Matthew locked his retard dog in his room. When we returned later in the evening, there were wood shavings and carpet everywhere, and two very happy looking puppies on the couch breathing heavily.

Friday, January 23, 2009

Whoever thought up this hippie pussy liberal bullshit trend deserves to be shot. Or perhaps hung with a rope made of nothing but recycled fibers.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for recycling, conserving natural resources, finding new sources for fuel, etc., etc. What I am not for is the self righteous blathering of everyone "Going Green". I hate the t-shirts and bags that I see around my campus that blatantly scream "I recycle! And if you don't, you need to go to hell and die!" This Mother Earth/Nourish Your Mother/I-wear-nothing-but-hemp-and-vegan-fibers-because-I-care-that-much shit is really tiresome. An episode of South Park comes to mind - Hybrid cars, anyone?

Its a fad. Just like everything else. Its "awesomely cool" to recycle now. But soon, the Hollywood chicas and dudes will tire of being "environmentally conscious", and the entire United States will realize those "Green is my favorite color" shirts are no longer in style. Then we'll be back to vomiting more and more trash upon the planet, starting with the shirts. Which would be a sadder state of affairs. Sadder because pollution would pick up, not that the shirts were gone. The only consolation to me would be that maybe the really into it people will start bathing again, so I no longer have to endure their venomous odors.

Yes. Recycle. Yes. Conserve paper and energy. Yes. Try not to harm the environment. But, no. Do not tell me about it and how fucking proud you are of yourself. I don't really give a damn.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

One of my most favorite hobbies is to sit back in a crowd and watch everyone around me. Whether I know them or not, though to tell you the truth, watching someone you don't know at all is so much more interesting. You can make up stories about their lives and what they are doing and where they are going, and perhaps even who they may know in the group of people close by.

Here I sit in one of the numerous computer rooms on campus, and I can't help but glance around the room at the hodge podge of people paying homage to the warm soft glow of the monitors. To my right for instance, is a greasier looking guy who definitely needs a shower. But I see him glancing ever so secretly at the girl across from us and two seats down. The girl who is heavily pierced and looks a little greasy herself. And not in that, I'm-sexy-I-don't-need-showers, type of way. So I think they belong together. I keep waiting for her to catch his eye and dirty little sparks to fly between them.

But in all honestly, she could quite possibly be a lesbian. And then I want to see her defend her nazi-feminist regime to all that defy her; she's definitely not a lipstick lesbian. Which honestly, this world could use more of.

My fingers are freezing to the keyboard, as my college is trying to cut costs everywhere but in the sports arena, and the heat has been turned off in certain buildings or lowered to such temperatures that "heat" is an oxymoron. So I will slough on my warm winter jacket (thank you Demon, darling) and trudge up the Hill for yet another class.

All the while, my little dog is keeping my bed warm and mocking me for entering the frozen air.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

You know what sucks? Not just sucks, but really, really sucks? Waking up late for work, getting ready quickly, and leaving knowing you will be five minutes late. Then you open the door to the outside and see that everything has been covered in a fine layer of white powdery snow. You wish to everything holy that you were still a kid and snow meant a free day of nothing but fun. But no, you are an adult, god damn it, and you must trudge on. So you climb the steep slope of ice from your front door to your frozen over car. You lower yourself inside the frigid interior, silently cursing Al Gore and thinking of PJ's recent post, put your keys in the ignition, and turn.

Rrrrrrer... rrrrrrer... rrrrrer... clickclickclickclick...

"Barbara Streisand."

Yes, I awoke to a dead battery this morning. If not for the jumper cables and my room mate, I would have had a free day of...

Monday, January 19, 2009

He looked like a skeleton in the hospital bed. Nothing like the strong man I knew growing up. The man who picked me up and threw me into the air with ease to catch me and bite my cheeks, his blue eyes twinkling with his laughter. The many wires and tubes wound around his body, the bandages on his head, the needles in his arms made him seem unreal. Not my papa. Not my papa.

I slept in his hospital room the night before, curled on a plastic bench at his side. In the night he called out for my grandmother, his daughters, me, my cousin. Each time I came to his side and took his hand, calming him until he fell back to sleep. Only once did he awake and know me, tell me he loved me and he was glad I was with him. He didn't want to be alone here. I didn't actually sleep. I just laid there, listening to him breathe, praying I would continue to hear that slight snore.

The next morning, he was smiling and happy, but not Papa. We got him to stand and walk a few steps. Then I made the nurses leave when he began to get agitated, and I turned on the tv to his favorite - a western starring Clint Eastwood.

We sat and watched in silence, staring at the tv. Finally I turned to Papa, trying my hardest to build up my strength for what I knew I needed to do.

"I love you papa..." I began with this line. He already knew it, somewhere inside of him, where he was still him, he knew this with all his heart. "You have to go now. You can't stay for us. If you have to leave, you can. You can let go."

And I kissed his forehead and cried silent tears. His blue eyes just stared at me and he started humming, his head nodding along with the beat. My hand found his hands, and I clutched them tightly, memorizing every detail with my eyes and my touch.

Five days later, the hospital called us at home. His health was failing, he wasn't going to make it through the night. When we arrived, it was too late. He had passed moments before we reached his room. I still hurt. But I think he had already said his goodbyes. And he knew we had said ours. He wanted to go alone this time.

I drove quite a bit this weekend, listening to my radio when it chose to work as I traveled between my boyfriend's house and my apartment. During several instances on his part of the state, I heard talk of a vote coming up on January 22nd to make English as the main language in Nashville, TN. The commercial in support of this act was given by a man of Latin descent.

The commercial that called for people to vote 'no' for English as the official language was given by an obviously white liberal woman. Hearing her talk and her reasoning behind having a hodge podge of dialects made me so angry I had to turn the station. Unfortunately, my radio had frozen again, so I had to pull over and unplug the stupid hunk of metal to basically reboot it.

I just don't understand. It's not a problem for the Chinese to have Chinese as their official language. Spanish in Mexico. French in France. Etc, etc, etc. And yet, having English as our official language, the language that the majority of our people in this nation speak, is considered intolerant. At least that was what this certain woman was peddling.

There is a difference between being intolerant and keeping our cultures alive. I am all in favor of immigrants coming to live here. With one stipulation - that they come here legally, pay taxes, and eventually acquire a working knowledge of English. If I moved to Russia, I would be expected to do the same. If I moved to almost any other country, in fact.

We are the only nation who is so damn afraid of offending a minority (that is quickly becoming a majority) that we cannot make a stand on what will benefit the good of the country. I believe America has made many amends for the Spanish community, and I do not believe these allowances were for tolerance. I believe they were to increase the movement of these people to our country because they will work for almost nothing. Everything this country does is money oriented.

Money makes the world go round. Maybe I'll understand that better when I get some.

Friday, January 16, 2009

It has been over a week since I could fill my prescription. But today I waltzed right in and dropped it on the counter... and found out that what I had been paying $30 or more for, can be bought for only $4 at Wal-Mart. Say what you want to about that place. Call me a sell out for buying there, as they put people out of business with their cheap (both in price and in quality) products. Fuck you. I'm poor. Wal-Mart was made for those like me. Maybe one day when I have money I'll be allowed to have a soul and give a shit, but for right now I'm buying the cheap products, and I'm happy.

It was also time to buy hair dye (also at an excellent price) and touch up the roots. Its the damnedest thing. My natural color actually grows out, leaving me with this mousey brown shade. Or maybe that was my natural color? I have no idea. I have changed my color/hairstyle around every six months since I was thirteen. I get bored really easily.

So here I sit, my hair soaking in chemicals, doing myself what God should have done for me. It would be nice to have that power Tonks had in Harry Potter (excuse the reference, but if my hard ass boyfriend can enjoy some Harry Potter, so can I) to just randomly change my appearance. This is alot of trouble. It smells, it burns a little, and I'm probably damaging my hair all to hell. But it looks pretty banging when I get done.

I'm always willing to sacrifice a little pain. Recently I pierced my nose, and as many of my friends warned me, it has become an addiction. There are two more piercings I want. Maybe three, along with a slew of tattoos. The needle against your skin, penetrating and piercing and marking and scarring... Oh yes... I need to make an appointment...

Thursday, January 15, 2009

My insomnia has been driving me crazy lately. So guess who will be posting in abundance at night? Yes. Right here. This girl.

For some reason, at some times, my body refuses to sleep. At this moment I am so exhausted; I need to sleep. But my mind continues to roll over and around and in on itself, keeping me awake and keeping me from rest. I'd give anything to crawl into bed and fall asleep quickly and easily. My apartment is quiet, except for the soft snores emitting from my room mate's bedroom across the hall. All I hear is the clickety clack of my keyboard. It's soothing.

Let see. I have to be at work at 7 A.M. Which means I have to be awake at 5:30 A.M. to do everything in preparation for the day; a mere three hours away. Goody.

I've been here before; I've written here before; I've lived a different life before.

Perhaps this all seems familiar to you as well. Perhaps you read my words, see my blog, and deja` vu hits you like a ton of bricks. Don't worry. It's completely natural. Just keep coming back and reading more.

I contemplated a new name as well. Perhaps now Hester Prynne, Dorothy Hare, or even Lilith better suits my purpose. But in the end, I know that Lenina Crowne is the best descriptive noun for me.

This entire past year has been a time of change. Nothing in my life is the same as it was before. I've lost someone so close to me that my heart aches everyday at the thought of never seeing him again. Then I've lost some people that I hope burn forever in the fiery lakes of hell. Or suffer the pain of a thousand deaths. Or simply understand the pain they caused me and why I had to do what I had to do. To survive. To be happy. To live.

So. Here goes again. Another chance. Another attempt. And that's all I see life as. An endless cycle of new chances and opportunities. But I swear upon all that is holy and sacred. Never again will I sacrifice my endeavors to please another human. I will live for myself.

This Is Me

A sequel, a continuation of a blog I started long ago that ended abruptly. God knows what you will find here. I write short stories, I write about my life, I give my opinions freely about the world around me. It'll be like South Park - anything goes. And just as satirical.